


Seeing Doesn't Mean Believing

by JosieMarieVivianWilkins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confusion, Death, Denial, M/M, Return, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosieMarieVivianWilkins/pseuds/JosieMarieVivianWilkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's seeing Sherlock, and he's not convinced. Just a small drabble-y headcanon-y thing.<br/>(Alternative season two start)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Doesn't Mean Believing

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is how I envisioned the return of Sherlock after the last episode of season one. I'm a huge Johnlock shipper. Not sorry.

As John stood in the lounge of 221B Baker Street, looking out of the window and completely zoning out, he saw something different from the usual sights of his ganders out of the lounge window. John hadn't been able to completely forget about this flat. It held so many memories, so many feelings, so many things that John couldn't bear to let go of. Since Sherlock had... since he'd left (John still couldn't bring himself to say it again; telling his psychiatrist that first time had killed him, and when he begged Sherlock not to be, he knew it was true, and saying it again just emphasised something that he didn't want to think about), John had made it a habit to return to the flat once a week, and just make sure that... he didn't forget – he couldn't, not ever, but it helped him. With a shake of the head and a slight sigh, John dismissed the thing that he always looked out for. Every time he was there, he would just look out for that coat, the dark mop of curls – the man that had helped him get over everything. Now, he had to get over that man. Usually, he would phase himself in to thinking that a businessman on his way to work, his coat flowing behind him as he rushed ahead, was whom he sought out. But this... it wasn't a real person, it was a reflection.

No. No, it was just his mind coaxing him in to an old memory. Many a time had he seen Sherlock stare off in to the distance, and now his mind was pushing that memory in to reality.

“This isn't healthy...” John said, running a hand through his hair and sighing.

“ _No, it's not, John; you're a doctor, you should know that, being a doctor and all._ ”

John shook his head, tears brimming his eyes. Never had he imagined Sherlock speaking to him before. _I should leave_ , he thought, turning around and making his way to the door, ignoring the images his mind conjured.

“John,”

This time, John turned to confront the image, giving it his full attention. “You're not real, you're d... you're... dead, Sherlock.” John felt his throat begin to close up, tears misting his vision.  He began to shake his head, feeling a tear fall down his cheek.

“I... John, I can explain...”

John continued to shake his head, the tears coming more quickly, “No. No, you're dead. You're not here... only... only in my head.”

Sherlock stepped towards John, holding his shoulders and shaking him a little, “It's really me.”

“No! I watched you die – I watched you jump from that building! I saw your body –  your corpse – on the pavement!”

Sherlock took a deep breath, “You saw what I wanted you to see, John. You saw what everyone else _needed_ to see.”

“Then why didn't you tell me?!” What was he doing? Why was he fighting with his imagination? It was ludicrous. Thinking that Sherlock was alive – _convincing_ himself of it – it was mental. John turned away, running a hand through his hair and trying to hold back the shudder that the tears brought with them.

“John, please don't leave. Listen to me, I _will_ explain everything, but you need to believe me when I say that I. Am. Real.”

John felt hands on his arms, and then he was being pulled in to a hug which he fought against for a moment before he let his face fall in to the other man's chest. Only now believing that Sherlock was real when he felt the scratchy fabric of his jacket against his cheek, his hot breath on the top of his head, and felt him tremble as he held him. After a minute, he pulled away from the taller man, and made for the door. Hearing him say his name once more, he turned, falling to his knees and crying again. Sherlock's arms were around him, and he was telling him that it was okay.

And, he was right, for now, everything _would_ be okay.


End file.
